The Flower Returns To The Fight
by mediaeval-thotte
Summary: Sequel to The Lion And The Light and The Bloom After The Blight. Florence Cousland, retired Warden and former mage, has had ten peaceful years as Queen of Ferelden, raising her children and being a wife to her beloved Alistair. Unfortunately, war has come once more to Ferelden - in the form of a twisted magister bent on destruction. Set during the final half of Inquisition.
1. An Exchange Of Letters

_1 Kingsway. 9:41._

_King Alistair,_

_As per your last request, here is the most recent update on the matter of the Wardens._

_I do not feel as though I could do sufficient justice to the events that transpired at Adamant Fortress in a mere letter. Thus, be assured that the Inquisition dealt with the matter swiftly and decisively. The Grey Wardens have lodged themselves at Skyhold to recuperate from the ordeal, along with their remaining commander Loghain Mac Tir. I must sadly inform you that Leonie Caron, co-commander of the Fereldan company, perished bravely in combat. The Inquisition is happy to host the Grey Wardens, and welcomes their assistance in the fight against Corypheus. _

_I am sure that you have heard the reports of Red Templars manifesting across wide swathes of southern Thedas. These agents of the enemy have been spotted as far afield as the Hissing Wastes and Emprise du Lion. Within Ferelden, Sister Nightingale informs me that they have established a port on the north-eastern coast. I am afraid that this is all the intelligence that we possess currently on that particular matter. As for Corypheus himself, he appears to be lying low – for the meantime._

_I trust that this letter will wing its way swiftly to you, and hope that the situation does not change in the meantime. We live in a time of great flux, Your Majesty, and every dawn brings a new challenge. _

_Regards, _

_Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition._

* * *

_11 Kingsway, 9:41_

_Lady Montilyet,_

_Mac Tir has written to me about Adamant Fortress – it sounds like a bloody nightmare. The queen has asked me to pass on her gratitude to the Inquisitor for her part in the redemption of the Grey Wardens. As I'm sure you're aware, both she and myself have a vested interest in the Fereldan Order. Thanks for not banishing them – besides, I'm not sure if you have the authority to do that within my kingdom (!)_

_I also appreciate the tip-off about the Red Templar port on the Storm Coast. Teyrn Fergus Cousland took a detachment of troops from Highever and laid waste to it. There's nothing left save for some wreckage and bits of red lyrium. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if more of the bastards show up elsewhere. I hope they've been harassing Orlais in equal quantity._

_Speaking of Orlais, my uncle Teagan Guerrin is currently serving at Celene's court as our ambassador. He's written that there may be trouble in store for the Empress – some factional dispute turned nasty. It doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary for our neighbours, but it's worth keeping an eye on. _

_How's the Breach faring these days? Still raining down demons on my country? _

_Alistair Theirin._

_PS – My wife has included a note for Sister Nightingale. I've included a translation._

* * *

_19 Kingsway, 9:41_

_King Alistair,_

_The Inquisition is heartened to hear of your assistance in suppressing the Red Templar threat. They are the allies and pawns of Corypheus, and every blow against them will strike him too. I humbly request that you pass on the Inquisitor's personal gratitude to the teyrn. _

_Skyhold is happy to house the Grey Wardens until they recover their strength. We understand well the importance of the Order. Besides, we are already hosting the rebel mages within our walls – the fortress is large enough to accommodate the numbers. The mages have proved invaluable in bolstering our defences against our foes. I don't wish to sound presumptuous, but would you not reconsider your decree of exile against them? They were, after all, instrumental in suppressing the Breach. _

_Regards, _

_Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition._

_PS- I attach a return note from Sister Nightingale to Queen Florence. Sister Nightingale wishes me to remind you that she can perfectly comprehend the queen's 'unique' manner of writing, and no translation was necessary._

* * *

_25 Kingsway, 9:41_

_Lady Montilyet,_

_The rebel mages caused as much damage to Ferelden as the Templars who persecuted them. I'm not saying that I agree with the concept of Circles, but there needs to be some sort of compromise. My people have paid a high price for a war that had nothing to do with them. _

_I suggest that I meet with the leader of the rebel mages at Skyhold and see if we can reach some agreement. I've been chafing at the bit here in Denerim anyway – I want to see this Breach for myself, and to meet with your commanders. I don't know how your Inquisitor feels, but the situation now seems too urgent for letters. _

_Expect us by mid-Harvestmere._

_Alistair Theirin_

* * *

_28 Kingsway, 9:4_

_King Alistair,_

_The Inquisition would be honoured to receive you at Skyhold. The leader of the rebel mages is keen on opening discussions._

_A clarification, if I may be so presumptuous: you said, expect "us"? _

_Regards, _

_Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition_

* * *

_1 Harvestmere, 9:41_

_Lady Montilyet,_

_Where I go, my queen goes, and where she goes, so do our children._

_See you soon, _

_Alistair Theirin._

* * *

OOC Author Note: Well hellooooooo again :D I thought this would be a fun story to write - a return to Ferelden, set ten years after the events of Origins! I really wanted to come back to Alistair and Flo, and see how they were doing, and of course the whole Corypheus mess is going on XD So I thought it'd be a pretty cool thing if I could mess with canon (as usual! nothing new here!) and bring King Alistair and his family to Skyhold! This is just a little introductory chapter - I'm definitely going to be a lot slower putting out the updates, since I'm five and a half months pregnant and super anaemic at the moment, so I have like ZERO energy ahahaha. I go to bed at 8:30pm every night because I'm so exhausted! But I'm really excited to be writing this too :) As we can tell, Flo's writing skills haven't improved at all in a decade, lol


	2. Morning Briefing

Lady Josephine Montilyet, scion of her family house, former bard of the Mirrored Court and serving ambassador to the Inquisition, had a vast wealth of diplomatic experience to draw upon; and a grasp of etiquette second to none. During her tenure with the Inquisition, she had handled the petty demands of insecure nobles, whilst also expertly handling the public stream of invective from the Chantry, as well as managing the day-to-day issues that arose when several rival factions resided under one roof. Each of these demands she had juggled skilfully and simultaneously; her smooth and tawny Antivan forehead un-creased and a polite smile never far from her lips. Often, she could be glimpsed navigating the warren-like corridors of Skyhold, scribing a letter to an Orlesian _chevalier_, dictating contrasting correspondence to an attendant scribe, whilst also placating the whines of an unhappy noble. Josie – as she was known to her closest friends – was a calm and unruffled presence in the centre of Skyhold's constant whirlpool of activity.

Thus, it came as a surprise to Beatrix Trevelyan - the figurehead and fulcrum of the current iteration of the Inquisition - to discover her friend in a state of considerable panic one frostbitten Kingsway morning. The Inquisitor had roused herself at the usual time, bathed in poorly-heated water, dressed in her customary simple leathers and set out from her upper chamber to attend the customary morning briefing.

Beatrix, the daughter of a Marcher lord who had found herself leader of the Inquisition through more chance and happenstance than intent, had accepted the task of closing the Breach with reluctance. When the task was further complicated by the arrival of the twisted magister Corypheus, the Inquisitor lamented her misfortune – she was desperate to cross the Waking Sea and return home – but grimly accepted this additional responsibility.

The lady Trevelyan did not have much patience for the hundreds of refugees flooding into Skyhold's crumbling embrace. Beatrix had never liked socialising, and found the constant stares and whispered observations from the huddled masses tiring. She wore a glove to disguise the lurid green mark that seethed on her palm, ducked conversations and kept to back corridors as much as possible. At first Beatrix had not understood why Warden Blackwell had shunned a chamber within the main keep, choosing instead a draughty loft above a rear stable – now, after months of residing in the public eye, she understood well enough.

The air on the battlements tasted sharp and cold. A glacial wind from the peaks of the nearby Frostbacks gleefully explored Skyhold's crumbling towers and bastions. The Inquisitor pulled up the collar of her functional leather jerkin against the autumnal bite, and headed inside the main keep; angling herself like a blade towards the briefing room. She passed several of her companions as she headed through the derelict halls – the Orlesian mage Vivienne raised an elegant hand from an armchair beside the fire, perched on an upper balcony, the dwarf Varric called out a jovial greeting - but Beatrix did not stop.

_The sooner I arrive, _the Inquisitor thought to herself. _The sooner it'll be over with. _

_Josie knows how I am; she'll keep business short and to the point._

_Then the commander and I…. he can brief me on how the new recruits are coming along._

The Marcher lord's daughter allowed a small smile to play about her lips; hoping that her cheeks were not also betraying her excitement at seeing Cullen Rutherford once more. The Inquisitor and her commander had circled one another tentatively over the past few months, making the most hesitant of approaches. The previous night, he had confessed that he had been thinking about her; stumbling slightly over his words.

The curved corners of Beatrix' mouth contorted into a grimace as she came to a halt within Skyhold's war room. Dappled, jewel-toned light fell across the vast slab of oak that dominated the chamber; surrounded by attendant chairs in mismatched wood.

Only of these chairs was currently occupied. It supported the drooping figure of a woman whom Beatrix was more accustomed to seeing constantly on the move; whirling through Skyhold in a cloud of appeasing, charming, persuading and dictating. At this current moment, Josephine Montilyet was leaning back in the chair in the classical posture of a damsel in distress, fanning herself with trembling fingers and attempting to draw air into her lungs. The Inquisition's spymaster, known to most as Sister Nightingale and to her companions as Leliana, was leaning over her with rare amusement writ across her face.

"Breathe, Josie," she was murmuring, in a kinder voice than she was wont to use. "Breathe. The end times are not upon us, no matter what you might think."

Several yards away stood the commander of the Inquisition forces, looking distinctly uncomfortable. His face bore a redness that could not be entirely attributed to the fur draped around his shoulder, and he shifted from foot to foot in a perpetual nervous rhythm.

"Has the Breach opened up again?" asked Beatrix Trevelyan, only half-joking. "Is Corypheus at our front door?"

"I would almost rather that he were," replied the ambassador in her rich, delicately accented tones; a distinct tremor running through her words. "At least then I would not be responsible for preparations."

The mistress of spies tutted, disapproval writ across her hard-lined, yet still lovely face.

"Come on, _mon ami. _You ought not compare my old companions to our current worst enemy. Besides, did you not predict that this might happen?"

"Don't soften the strike," chided the Antivan, casting a reproachful look towards her friend. "They are not merely 'your old companions'. They are the _King and Queen of Ferelden. _And one of them is the Warden who _ended the Fifth Blight." _

She fanned herself ineffectually with slender, be-ringed fingers. Beatrix, still oblivious as to the cause of her ambassador's concern, found herself growing a little irritated. Cullen had not even acknowledged her entry; he was still gaping into thin air, eyebrows lodged within his curly hairline.

"What's going _on?" _she repeated, a fraction more sharply. "What's that about the Fereldan king?"

"He's coming _here," _the lady Montilyet responded faintly, gesturing towards a crumpled sliver of parchment discarded on the map table. "King Alistair. He wants to inspect the Breach for himself, and to meet with the leader of the mages."

Beatrix thought on this for a moment, a small crease forming on the bridge of her nose. The dappled light cast across the map table strengthened as the sun rose higher beyond the leaded glass.

"You're good at your job, Josie," she said eventually, still somewhat nonplussed at the former bard's loss of composure. "Surely the king is just another noble to handle? You must be an expert at that by now."

"Not just the king," the ambassador said, a trifle dazed. "The queen too. _And _their children."

"How many children?"

"Eight."

"_Eight?!_"

Beatrix mouthed her shock across the room. Cullen had still not caught her eye, he was now grimacing – unseeing – at a mouldered painting of a Mabari that hung on the far wall. Josephine gave a forlorn nod, turning her dark, soulful eyes towards them.

"_Eight _children," repeated the Inquisitor, faintly. "She's barely my age. They must divide their time evenly between the Landsmeet and the bedroom."

"I have no chambers suitable for a king and queen, let alone a little retinue of princes and princesses," the ambassador bemoaned as though she had not heard a word, rising to her slippered feet and ticking off each of her woes on her fingers. "The roof weeps like an abandoned suitor. Will they expect banquets? We only just have enough to feed ourselves and those whom we shelter. There are _holes _in the _walls!"_

The lady Montilyet clasped her cheeks in horror, envisioning some tiny blond prince tumbling from Skyhold's crumbling foundations. At this, the spymistress herself decided to intervene; clearing her throat with her usual Orlesian inflection.

"Enough of this caterwauling," Leliana interjected briskly, though there was a soft tug at the corner of her mouth that Beatrix could not remember seeing before. "I once knew Alistair and Florence well. They won't care for draughty chambers or leaking roofs, as long as there's a place to build up a fire. No banquets will be necessary. And the children can share a room."

The Inquisitor darted a curious glance at her spymaster from the corner of her eye. It was well-known that Sister Nightingale had once travelled with the Hero of Ferelden as part of her retinue, but that had been a decade ago. By her own choice, Leliana now chose to keep much of her past sealed tighter than an Antivan lockbox.

"_Eight _children," spoke up Cullen in a tone of disbelief – the first time he had uttered anything since Beatrix had entered the war room. "I knew of the Twins, of course-"

"_Everyone's _heard of the Twins," interrupted Beatrix, vaguely annoyed that he had barely spared a glance in her direction since she had entered the room. "She was ripe with them on her wedding day."

The wedding of King Alistair to the lady Cousland had been the one and only time that Beatrix Trevelyan had set eyes on Ferelden's royal couple. It had taken place a decade prior, only six weeks after the ending of the Fifth Blight. All of Thedas' leading families had been invited, and – despite Ferelden's reputation as a backwater nation two Ages behind its neighbours – most had accepted, curious to see the bastard king and his bride. Beatrix could remember little from the occasion itself, but the lady Cousland's face had stuck in her memory like a burr on a woollen cloak.

Josephine turned startled eyes on the Inquisitor, one artfully plucked brow rising to her hairline.

"I didn't realise that you had actually _met _them," she said, reproach at Beatrix' failure to mention such a momentous fact mingled with a faint tinge of jealousy. "What were they like?"

Beatrix thought for a long moment, aware of the heat of Cullen's amber-tinged gaze.

"I only met them for a brief moment," she replied at last, recalling the heat and noise of the great hall within Denerim Castle; the barking of dogs mingling with the laughter of men and the pouring of ale. "He… he had the look of their old king- "

"Cailan?"

"More so the one who expelled the Orlesians. Madoc?"

"_Maric," _corrected Cullen, and was quickly shushed by the ambassador.

"_Ssht! _Continue!"

"And I remember thinking that I'd never seen a man more delighted to find himself entangled in the bonds of marriage," Beatrix continued slowly, the bright blaze of happiness on King Alistair's face breaking the surface of her memory.

"And she? The Hero of Ferelden?"

Beatrix snorted, remembering the impudent question that her own younger self had thrown at the newlywed queen; who was sitting at Alistair's side so close that she might as well have been perched on his lap.

_I asked her why she had taken her unborn child to war, _the Inquisitor thought to herself. _And she replied that the child was strong, like it's father. _

_Her voice startled me: it was gentle, and hoarse, and shaped by the common cadence of a peasant. _

"She was smaller than I'd expected. And I remember thinking that she seemed much too pretty for war, like… like a little doll."

The spymistress, who had relocated herself to the great glass window to gaze out at the sweeping alpine majesty of the Frostbacks, barely disguised her snort. Beatrix ignored Leliana, angling her words towards the ambassador.

"Anyway, do we really _have _to host them here now, Josie? We've the Orlesian question to deal with, the situation further west – this is hardly the time for a diplomatic visit."

"And we can hardly say _no _to the King of Ferelden," replied the lady Montilyet, the earlier panic having dissolved like an early morning mist. Already the machinations of the ambassador's quick mind were working like a Val Royeaux timepiece, calculating the best course of action. "He and his family will be arriving in two weeks. With your approval, Inquisitor, I'll have the east tower cleared out and prepared for them and their retinue."

"And any vast holes in the masonry boarded up," reminded Beatrix, enjoying the ensuing twitch of indignation on her ambassador's face.

"_Naturalmente!"_

There followed silence for a few drawn out moments; elongated like a dressmaker's silken thread. Beatrix stole a glance at her commander, subtle and pointed. He returned her silent query with a brief nod, still mired in his own thoughts.

Vaguely annoyed, but for no clear reason that she could name, the Inquisitor wandered across to one of the great leaded windows. Putting her face close to the glass so that her view was not segmented into diamonds, she gazed down at Skyhold's courtyard. Scant vegetation clung to the mouldering ruins, but the foliage that had managed to find a foothold in the alpine conditions was beginning to curl and fade. Autumn was fast approaching, although the fortress was located high enough in the Frostbacks that seasonal changes were less apparent. In the cobbled square below, she could see a motley collection of the Inquisition's current guests. Two priestesses, no longer welcome by the Chantry but reluctant to abandon the traditional garb, sat conversing on a bench. The sisters cast occasional dark looks towards a nearby soldier, who was assailing a training dummy as though it were Corypheus himself. On closer inspection, Beatrix realised that it was no ordinary soldier, but one of the mercenaries belonging to the Iron Bull. The vast Qunari was leaning against a nearby pillar, the column barely seeming sufficient to support his weight. He was also earning his fair share of disapproving glances from the former Chantry sisters. As if alerted by a flickering of the Qun, the leader of the Chargers turned to glance up at the war room windows, high overhead, his thoughtful gaze narrowed against the autumnal sun. Suddenly irritated with Cullen for his studied aloofness, Beatrix raised a hand of greeting.

Before she could see his response, the stillness of the war room was broken by the entrance of an apologetic steward.

"A message for the lady Montilyet," he murmured, inclining his head demurely.

The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed as she tracked the progress of the folded parchment, from the steward's leather glove to the elegant olive-hued fingers of her ambassador.

"This had better not be any more royals coming to stay," she offered, returning to drum her fingers irritably against the slab of carven oak. "Don't tell me, the Empress of Orlais is at the front door."

Josephine let out a delicate snort, shaking her head.

"The keeper of the jail is asking when – respectfully – the prisoner Gregory Dedrick will be placed on trial. Apparently, the cells are full!"

"Then build a bigger dungeon," retorted Beatrix, impatient for the briefing to be over. "Who in the fel is Gregory Dedrick again?

"The mayor of Crestwood," replied Leliana quietly, from where she had settled herself in an armchair. As usual, the spymistress seemed to be privy to every piece of correspondence within Skyhold, regardless how minor. "The one responsible for sacrificing his townspeople during the Fifth Blight."

The ambassador, maintaining her façade of careful neutrality, turned questioning eyes on the Inquisitor.

"When ought I schedule his trial, lady Trevelyan? It can be at your convenience."

Beatrix let out an impatient _hmph _under her breath. Out of all the duties and obligations required from her as reluctant leader of the Inquisition, sitting in judgement pleased her the least. She had spent a lifetime being judged by her Chantry-fearing family, and now felt exceptionally unqualified to pass judgement on anyone else.

"This afternoon," she said at last, reasoning that there was no point in delaying it any further. "Perhaps when the king arrives, he'd be happy to oversee these trials in my place. I'm tired of them."

"Then the jail would stay overfull," replied Josephine, wryly. "His wife has a reputation for mercy, does she not? And she is his closest counsel."

"Not always," murmured Leliana from the corner, the faintest hint of a smile in her words. "I once saw her plant a hook into a man's privy parts and then _pull _until all came tumbling out."

The commander and the steward winced in unison as the Inquisitor visibly brightened.

"Now _that _would be a way to liven up court proceedings!"

* * *

OOC Author Note: OK so this is how I envision this working- alternating one chapter from Beatrix' perspective to cover the main events of Inquisition (since this is her story!) and then the next chapter from Flo's perspective. Then we can keep moving the plot forward, while also having Flo, Alistair and their family interacting with everything. Obviously there's going to be some canon fuckery going on, since that's my thing :D :D The main canon thing I've altered so far is not having King Alistair rock up at Redcliffe Castle in the aftermath of the mage recruitment quest – reason being, he doesn't travel without his family and the Hinterlands were still a war zone at that point. So I'll make it Eamon who showed up there instead. So Alistair hasn't met Fiona yet!

We actually met Beatrix briefly in the Bloom After The Blight – she was a guest at the royal wedding! She's the classic girl brought up in a religious family who turned rebellious as an adult, and who is very unhappy at the responsibilities now thrust upon her :P I wanted an Inquisitor who was a lot sassier/feistier than my poor, gormless Flo, hahaha. I also wanted to create someone who wouldn't just stoically shoulder the burden, like Flo did. Someone a bit more rebellious!

Speaking of Flo, she and Alistair have been pretty busy in the past ten years. EIGHT CHILDREN! Well, Alistair wasn't joking when he said he wanted a Mabari-style litter of kids, lol. To be fair, they had three at the end of TBATB – the twins, and the Chasind orphan they adopted – and then they've had five more over the past nine years XD

Next chapter – we reunite with 30 year old Flo, and 31 year old Alistair! :D

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you so much! And thank you for being patient with the slower pace of updates, I'm still waiting on the burst of energy that I was PROMISED in the second trimester, ahahaha. Now I'm pregnant, I can't believe all the shit I put Flo through when she was up the duff, lol. Sorry babe!


	3. The Decade-Married Newlyweds

Three hundred miles east of Skyhold, a marginally more intact Denerim Castle sprawled over a rocky outcrop overlooking the Fereldan capital. It was positioned so that it could survey the wide-mouthed river estuary that led out to the ocean, as well as the rolling grasslands of the Alamarri Plains. Akin to Skyhold, it was a structure built primarily for defence; a brutal, stone-walled cousin of the elegant architecture favoured by the Orlesians.

Denerim itself, lulled into security by many peaceful years, had expanded beyond the confines of the city walls. Now half of the grassland – once the site of the last stand against the Darkspawn forces – had been built upon; a marketplace surrounded by a warren of tightly packed dwellings. The spire of new Chantry rose triumphant amongst the shingled rooftops.

A decade had passed since the defeat of the Archdemon, harbinger of the Fifth Blight. The scars once luridly left on the city were fading; the walls had been rebuilt, Fort Drakon restored. The battlefield was now a bustling new district; the harbour thrived with ships from the furthest corners of Thedas. The troubles in the west of the nation – the outbreak of violence between mages and Templars – had not yet touched the nation's capital. Up until the past year, Ferelden had seemed extraordinarily fortunate; harvests had been bounteous, and they had escaped the outbreak of plague that killed thousands in the Marches. The towns destroyed by the Darkspawn – South Reach, Honnleath and Gwaren – had been resettled, thanks to their respective restoration committees. Even land tainted by the Blight had begun to put forth the first tentative sprouts of new growth.

Most Fereldans attributed this good fortune to a blessing from the Maker, His favour reflected by the queen's remarkable fertility. Every two years without fail, celebrations were held across the land rejoicing in an addition to the royal nursery. The young Theirin, who grew to resemble his father more with each passing year, was popular amongst the people for his earnestness and good humour. His queen – known as the Flower of Ferelden – was equally beloved, having once wielded a power great enough to slay a dragon. Now, a mage no longer, Florence Cousland was renowned for her beauty, and for the ripe fecundity of her belly. Eight children – one adopted, but counted as an equal in all ways – guaranteed the security of the Theirin dynasty.

Just as the lady Montilyet sat down at her desk to read of the royal family's impending arrival, the king of Ferelden finally finished kissing his wife. The midnight bell had just been rung to signify the change in watch. The night stewards yawned and exchanged idle conversation; the Royal Guard stood ever-vigilant in the corridor lined with portraits of previous monarchs. The royal bedchamber itself – a stark and high-ceilinged room dominated by a vast, fur-strewn bed and equally impressive fireplace – was located between the Cousland quarters, and the former Mac Tir rooms; now the royal nursery.

Amidst the sprawl of furs and embroidered blankets, the king raised himself on his elbows and gazed down at his wife of almost a decade. She was smiling back up at him, the corners of her full mouth reddened from being too ardently kissed, her pale eyes reflecting the flickering warmth of the hearth. Rich, oxblood ropes of hair flowed across the cushions, like streams of spilt Antivan wine.

"My sweet wife," Alistair Theirin breathed, his voice hoarse from their recent exertions. "Do you know, I'd swear to the Maker that you were still a mage?"

"Eh?" replied his sweet wife, with her customary northern eloquence. Despite ten years spent as a Cousland and perched on the throne of a nation, Flora's own speech was still irrevocably shaped by her humble upbringing; a fact that never failed to astonish visiting ambassadors and diplomats.

"Because, my queen," he replied, admiring the high, sculpted arc of her cheekbone. "There's no other explanation as to how you grow more beautiful every day. It _must _be magic."

Flora smiled shyly up at her husband, reaching to stroke the side of his bearded cheek. The sentiment was tinged with a streak of wistfulness; it had been ten years since her spirits had been purged from her, and the raw edge of grief had faded into a soft, blurred melancholy that struck her when she least expected it.

"You're more handsomer with each day that goes by," she began, and then paused; uncertain of her own grammar. "More handsomest. The most handsomest barracuda in the sea."

"_Barracuda?"_

Alistair pressed his lips to her neck with a little growl, inhaling the sweet, pear-scent of the soap that she washed her hair with. She giggled, squirming weak-limbed amongst the furs; lazy and sleepy and sated.

"You _know_ what I mean, husband."

The king eased himself out of his beloved wife with a reluctant groan, rolling over and bringing her with him. Flora propped herself up and peered down at him, their previous positions now reversed. The broad muscle of her husband's chest had not diminished with a decade of peace. Old habits died hard, and he still spent two hours a day practising the Templar drills against an instructor, whose sole job it was to keep the king battle-ready. At thirty one, Alistair Theirin had grown into a likeness of Maric so uncanny that it never failed to draw remark. One minor reason that he had grown the neatly-trimmed, coppery beard was to distinguish himself from his father, who had kept a clean-shaven face.

Yet the main reason for Alistair's facial hair was that his wife liked it; it reminded her of Herring, and of the men who hauled in the boats there. Sprawled contentedly on top of his broad chest, Flora reached up to cradle her husband's cheek in her hand, tracing the line of his furred jaw with her thumb.

"How long will it take to get to Skyhold?" she asked, interspersing her words with a yawn. "As the fish swims."

Alistair stifled a laugh, interlocking his fingers across the small of his wife's slender, scar-mottled back.

"I'm not sure about _as the fish swims, _my love, but _as the crow flies, _it's about three hundred miles. The road is good, but we won't be able to travel as fast as a messenger on horseback."

Flora nodded solemnly: with eight children, sometimes even the journey between castle and city could take an Age.

"Taron, Ted and Kieran will be fine," Alistair continued, thinking on their eldest; who were now approaching a decade in age. "In fact, they'll probably go _too _fast. They'll be in Redcliffe before we've even reached South Reach."

The parents beamed at one another, proud of their eldest clutch of offspring. As befitted the children of royalty, the three siblings had learnt to ride almost at the same time as they had begun to walk. All three had been in the saddle from the age of two, riding full-sized steeds by the time they were five. They possessed Alistair's affinity for horses; while the queen still shared a saddle with the king.

Beside the fire, one of the Mabari – Cod, from the look of her tawny fur – stirred. She raised her head, noting the change of guard outside the door, then lowered her muzzle to her paws once again.

Flora let her finger drop to Alistair's chest, following the contours of muscle and bone that she knew as intimately as her own body. One by one, she traced the old scars – predecessors of her arrival into his life – with an absent-minded fingertip.

_Should I bring it up? _she wondered, having never lost the childhood habit of speaking to her spirits. The former mage had never _quite _abandoned the hope that, one day, her Silver Knight and Golden Lady might answer her once again.

…

After a pause, it became clear that tonight was not the night for a response.

_I'm going to bring it up. He's all contented and happy from us lying together; he won't be too cross._

"Are – are we going to visit Haven after we leave Redcliffe?" Flora ventured. "I looked at a map. It's on the way to Skyhold."

Immediately, the lazy post-coital haze dissolved from her husband's face. His olive brow creased, his eyes widened and then narrowed in dismay.

_Visiting Haven, meant visiting the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The place destroyed during the Divine's conclave. The place where – if circumstance had gone any differently – _

Just as Alistair opened his mouth, an unhappy wail rose from the nearby cradle. All three Mabari beside the fireplace raised their heads, ears pricking. Identifying the cry as a demand for food – rather than fear or a need for comfort – they settled back down. Flora took the cries as an excuse to wriggle free from her husband's indignant stare; extricating herself from the furs and escaping the royal bed. Crossing the flagstones and grimacing at their coldness, she reached down into the wooden crib to retrieve their youngest.

"Gwyndolen," she whispered, lifting the year-old baby into her arms. "Wynnie. Are you hungry?"

The fat, chubby-thighed princess clung to her mother and yowled, suggesting that she _was _indeed hungry. Flora carried her over to the chair before the hearth, perching on the armrest. Tilting her head so that ropes of loose hair fell away from her breast, she leaned back as the baby fixed herself hungrily to the nipple.

The king raised himself up against the pillows so that he could gain a better view of his wife and youngest child, their bodies silhouetted against the flames. Wynnie was quiet now, her golden-curled head resting against her mother's shoulder as she focused on her meal. The fat baby seemed almost too heavy for the queen's slender frame to bear; narrow-hipped and slight in build. The robust fullness of Flora's hair, falling in a red-wine stream down to her buttocks, only emphasised the contrasting delicacy of her body.

Unprompted and unwelcome, the familiar fear flooded the king's mouth once more. He tasted a bitter tang of bile as he swallowed back dread. Ever since Flora had lost the only two magical abilities she had ever possessed – remarkable healing, and a shield through which nothing had been able to penetrate – he had borne an irrational fear for her safety. After her subsequent ordeal at the hands of a band of Carta dwarves, he had sworn never to let her leave his sight. True to his word, the king and queen were rarely seen apart – and even then, never more than the distance between chamber and courtyard.

_Vulnerable _thought the king feverishly, for the thousandth time in a decade. _My precious, defenceless wife. _

When the Divine had proposed a summit between the rogue Templars and the mages, to be held on the neutral ground of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Flora had volunteered to attend the Conclave. As both a former mage and current queen, she believed herself to be a powerful advocate for reconciliation – and she had always taken an interest in the wellbeing of the Circles. It had broken the queen's heart to see such bloodshed on Fereldan soil, and she was desperate to play some role in bringing about peace.

Alistair – at first – had flat-out refused; his heart clenching in terror at the thought of his wife travelling hundreds of miles through a war zone, surrounded by enemies held only to a tentative truce. After weeks of persuasion, and the assurance that Leonas Bryland would personally accompany her with a whole host of the Royal Army, the king had finally, reluctantly given in. The night before Flora and her retinue were meant to leave; the infant Gwyndolen had woken with a flushed face and skin that was hot to the touch. The queen immediately delayed her journey and stayed in Denerim to nurse her sick daughter back to full strength; a process which had taken almost a month.

_And during that time, _the king recalled, dizzy with horror. _The Conclave exploded, the sky tore itself open and demons began to rain down on the mountains. _

_If circumstances had been but a little different – my Flora would have been destroyed along with the Divine and hundreds of others. I would have lost my sweet wife, the mother of my children, the adored queen of my country. My best friend, my sister-warden. _

Thrusting aside the wolfskin, Alistair rose to his feet, wanting suddenly to take Flora in his arms and feel the warmth of her flesh, the solidness of her bones against his. He strode across the flagstones, pausing briefly to scratch Barkspawn's enquiring head, then lowered himself to the armchair. A moment later and he had drawn his naked wife down onto his bare thighs, encasing both Flora and the feeding baby within strong arms.

"We can't go to Haven, Flo," he said softly into his wife's hair, inhaling the comforting scent of _her. _"There's nothing left of the Temple now, only ruins. And the occasional demon. I won't have you – or our children – put at unnecessary risk. Why do you even want to go there, anyway?"

Flora let her head rest back against his shoulder, lulled into the odd, peaceful drowsiness that accompanied an infant's suckling.

"I don't know," she whispered, watching the fire contort itself into strange shapes in the hearth. "To see it with my own eyes, I suppose."

Alistair let out a heavy sigh, running a thumb along the plump underside of Wynnie's foot until she shot him a malevolent stare; not appreciating the distraction from her feeding. It was a stare worthy of her namesake, who had passed away the previous year.

"I can't believe all this is happening again," he said after a moment, wry humour mixed with genuine sadness. "I truly thought that Ferelden would be left in peace after the Blight. Why do these things keep happening to us, baby? It doesn't seem fair."

Although it had been a rhetorical question, Flora tilted her head and gave it some genuine thought. The baby was beginning to fall asleep at her breast; she lifted the little girl to her shoulder and began to pat the air from her.

"Sailors say that at sea you get a big storm every ten years," she said eventually, turning her face up to his. "One that brings up wreckage from the bottom and hurls it onto the clifftops. One that forms great spouts of seawater that reach into the clouds. A truly _devastating _storm."

"And what happens after these super storms, my darling?" her husband asked, humouring her. "Everything gets destroyed, I take it."

"For a time," Flora replied, placid and inscrutable as ever. "But after that, ships are made better. Sailors are made tougher. After the storm weakens you, it makes you stronger."

Alistair felt his heart constrict with a sudden, powerful clench; one so strong that he had to blink back the emotion. He took a deep gulp of air as she slithered from his lap, padding across the room to replace the sleepy baby gently in the cradle.

Returning upright from kissing Wynnie's plump cheek, Flora felt arms slide around her waist; the familiar warm bulk of a man pressing against her from behind. She reached up blindly – there was over a foot between their heights – and managed to brush her fingers against a bearded chin. Alistair raised a hand to capture hers, the matching golden twists on their wedding fingers clinking together as they interlaced palms.

"How long has it been since I told you how much I love you?" the king murmured, bending to breathe the words into her ear. At the same time his free hand rose to cup the underside of her swollen breast, kneading the silky flesh with a thumb. "My sweet wife."

"Ages," his queen replied throatily, pressing herself back against him with an unsubtle keenness. "At least an _hour. _Tell me again."

Alistair lifted her up with ease, carrying her like a newlywed bride towards the bed. Lowering Flora amidst the rumpled furs, he took a long moment to admire her resplendent nakedness: the glorious turmoil of the rich crimson hair, the sculpted curvature of her body. The silvered scars left by the Archdemon were emblazoned across her collarbone, her hip, the outside of her milky thigh.

"Maker's Breath," he said, awed by the depth and potency of his need for her. "I _love _you, Flo."

Flora reached up both arms towards him, equally desirous. Alistair sunk readily into her arms, covering her with his nakedness as the mattress dipped beneath their combined weight.

"I love you too," she whispered, just before her mouth was once more claimed by his.

* * *

OOC Author Note: And this is why they have eight kids, they're still acting like newlyweds a decade after they got married, lol

I'm also trying to will my unborn baby into EXCELLENT BABY BEHAVIOUR by writing infants who settle down to sleep IMMEDIATELY :D I'm gonna wish it into being!

Wynne :'( :'( :'( Omfgggggggghhhhhh. Gwyndolen is named in her memory :'( Can't believe she got killed off in a book!

Also one of the main plot points in this story is going to be how overprotective Alistair has become of Flo in the past decade - that's going to be a major arc for both of them, especially considering the name of the story!

Flo is still well into her fish obsession :P And she still secretly hopes that her spirits might come back to her one day!

Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you 3 3


	4. AUTHOR NOTE LONG TIME NO UPDATE hohoho

OOC Author Note: Haha it seems a bit redundant to say that this story is on hiatus when I haven't updated it for fucking ages! hahaha I definitely plan on coming back to it at some point - but I haven't played Inquisition and I defo need to do that in order to write a sequel set during it, lol XD And since I have a 5 and a half month old daughter now

I don't have the time to sit on my arse playing games for hours! As it is, I only get to write during her naps and when she goes to bed :P So instead my current project is rewriting The Lion and the Light - I don't know how much of it I'll rewrite, but I was pretty much illiterate (slight exaggeration) in 2016 when the first section was written and it's aged SO BADLY! I legit cringe when I read it! Flora is much too sassy and she has no real character in those early chapters, as if she would be having a dream about MEN as her character introduction! Now that I've written over one and a half million words, I do feel like my writing ability has improved (not that you can tell from these hideous rambling notes) and I also know Flora much better as a character. Incidentally my daughter's middle name is Fflûr, which is Welsh for Flora :D anyway, so I've called it TLATL Redux (not reflux, I've had too much of that having a baby lol) and I am so excited to bring my OG story into 2020, hehe


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